THE KISS OF THE UNBORN
grows up he will know—he will compare himself with living children, he will want to live a real life, and then he will reproach me and I shall want to die."
She never thought how foolish were such thoughts in the light of reality. She could not imagine that the unborn child renounced by her had never been the habitation of a human soul. No—for Nadezhda Alexevna her unborn child lived, and tortured her heart with an endless grief.
To her he was as a shining one, clad in bright garments, with little white hands and feet, clear innocent eyes and pure smile. When he laughed his laugh was happy and musical. True, when she wanted to caress him he evaded her, but he never went far away, he was always hiding somewhere near. He ran away from her embraces, but all the same he often seemed to put his soft, warm little arms about her neck and press his tender lips to her cheek—at those times when she sat quietly alone and closed her eyes. But never once had he kissed her on the lips.
"When he grows up he will understand," she thought. "He will be sorry, and he will go away and never come back any more. And then I shall die."
And now as she sat in the noisy, crowded
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